Free A Nose for Death by Glynis Whiting

Soon.” He closed his notebook, briefly put his hand over hers where it rested on her knee. “Can we get together later?”
    Before she could answer, Hazel joined them. “Hey, Hazel,” Joan instinctively asked, “do you want to get together with us for coffee later?”
    â€œHell, I’ll need a beer by the end of today.”
    Hazel had held onto her best qualities; her sense of humour, her lack of criticism and judgment, her thirst for a good time. The three of them agreed to meet at a place called Jacques Bistro. Gabe went to his next interview. Hazel said she had visiting to do in town. Her parents had died many years before and Joan wondered who it was that she still visited in Madden. She looked around for Peg, but she had disappeared. With several hours to kill, Joan decided to go back to the motel for a warm sweater, then she’d grab lunch and go for a long walk to let the spring air fill her nostrils.

C HAPTER S EVEN
    A N EARLIER URBAN PLANNER AT M ADDEN City Hall had the foresight to protect the riverbank as recreational property. The core of the plan was a web of trails connected by rustic bridges and stairs. To make room, the city had bought up Vern’s Wreckers, two old farm sites, and had arranged a public path through the old Madden Mobile Home Park. The trail started behind the motel and ran through the forest of pines and poplars all the way to the railway tracks, where it joined the far end of Main Street.
    Joan picked up a map of the parkway from the front desk of the Twin Pines and decided to walk into town. She passed a sign warning cyclists that the path was steep and rocky. Soon after that the trail dipped abruptly down the riverbank. Luckily the pathway had been spared the pine beetle infestation that had devastated so many forests in the West. The thick trees met overhead and Joan was soon walking through a tunnel of green. On one side the river rushed by, and on the other large rocks and dark clay created a natural, crumbling wall. Except for the distant highway sounds, she might be a million miles from anywhere.
    She’d been walking for several minutes when she realized that she wasn’t alone on the path. Quick footsteps pattered ahead. As she rounded a curve she saw a figure: a woman, rather tall, hoodie drawn up over her head, was slipping and sliding in flimsy footwear. Joan couldn’t make out the face. The woman sped up and Joan lost sight of her. But when she rounded the next corner she could see the woman trying to climb down the path toward the river. With a sudden cry, she slid down the lower bank and landed with a thud. As Joan raced toward her, she recalled last night when she’d tried to assist someone in peril. Marlena had turned on her. With care, she approached the spot where the woman had disappeared and saw arms and legs tangled among branches and deadwood. The woman looked up. It was Daphne. Her sunglasses were askew on her nose and her backcombed hair stood up from her head like a rooster’s plume. She smiled meekly. “Hi there, Cupcake.”
    As Joan pulled Daphne up the bank, it became clear that the other woman had no idea who she was.
    â€œI’m Joan.” The reminder elicited a blank stare from Daphne. “Parker. Joan Parker.”
    â€œOf course. Joan, Joannie. How the heck are you?” She suspected from this over-enthusiastic but hollow response that Daphne still didn’t recognize her. It was a blow. Was she so unforgettable that even someone who had been a friend, one of a very few, couldn’t remember her? Not only had they had several classes together, but they’d also shared the lemon gin fiasco.
    As she helped Daphne to her feet and brushed the dead leaves from her jacket, she had a closer look at her former classmate. The heavy makeup had made her look older under the harsh light of the gymnasium, but in the soft light of day and with her sunglasses perched comically, Daphne looked